Fix Her Up (Hot & Hammered #1)(7)

And she’d have to turn those jobs down.

A familiar hint of panic crept into her throat. Her fledgling clown business, along with some help from her parents, had put her through college, but it no longer seemed as sustainable. She did her best to keep the act fresh and cater to new trends, but kids’ birthday parties were a competitive racket. Parents wanting to outdo each other were beginning to look outside of Port Jeff for their entertainment needs. What was Georgie going to do about that? With a mortgage to pay, the future of her one-woman show had begun weighing more and more heavily on her mind.

Don’t worry about it now. Not when there’s compote to be consumed, parents and siblings to impress, and mimosas to drink. And Travis.

As if she could forget about Travis and his big, beautiful, brooding self.

Would he come?

No. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d barely given her the time of day when she was a kid. What made her think this guy who’d been wined, dined, and invited to the White House would be interested in having brunch with a girl who’d chucked rotting food at his head? Still. It didn’t hurt to imagine him waltzing through the swinging door of her kitchen with that amazing animal grace, that tongue tucked into his lower lip as if he just had to utilize it at all times. Guh.

Pressing her hand to her pounding heart, Georgie checked the clock on the oven. She would find out if he’d show soon enough. There was only ten minutes to go until everyone started to arrive.

Telling her nerves to hit the road, Georgie took the pitcher of mimosas out of the fridge, arranging it at an artistic angle on the kitchen table. She couldn’t stop herself from taking her cell phone out and snapping a few pictures in portrait mode.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m one of these smug foodie people now.”

Before she could post the picture to Instagram, the phone dinged with an incoming text message. It was from her sister, Bethany.

B: Can’t make it. That asshole community theater director broke up with me during the appetizers last night and I self-medicated with Cuervo. Rain check next week?

Georgie slumped into a kitchen chair, her fingers poised to reply. She typed a message imploring her sister to come, then deleted it and sent a thumbs-up instead. No big deal. Stephen and Kristin were coming, weren’t they? Her brother could eat enough to feed a small village—a way better brunch guest than Bethany, the perpetual dieter.

Fifteen minutes later, the pitcher of mimosas had started to sweat. A check of the waffles in the oven confirmed they were beginning to dry out. She paced the kitchen with her cell in hand for another five minutes before sending a text to Kristin.

G: You guys coming to brunch?

Ten seconds later her phone dinged.

K: What brunch, sweetie?

Georgie’s eyes closed slowly, the phone dropping to her side. The brunch had been so unimportant to her brother, he hadn’t even remembered to tell his wife. God, now if her parents showed up, her father would shuffle the floor like a loose end. Without Stephen around for Brick & Morty shop talk, his restlessness would be obvious, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. Her mother would poke her husband and send him dagger eyes until he relaxed, but did Georgie want to inconvenience them?

Quickly, she fired off a text to her mother.

G: Mom, we’re moving brunch to next weekend. I overslept.

She tacked on a befuddled emoji for good measure.

Her phone buzzed.

M: Are you sure, honey? We’re halfway there. I can help whip something up.

Georgie hesitated.

G: I’m sure. Go split your favorite pancakes at the Waterfront, instead ;)

That was it. All that work and no one was coming.

She pressed the pads of her thumbs into her eye sockets and sighed. She’d been holding out hope that buying the house would force everyone to recognize her as a fellow adult, but maybe such a feat was impossible this late in the game. Her parents loved her, but they’d been exhausted by the time their third child came along. Whereas her siblings were given careful attention and had their paths carved into the family business, Georgie had been left to figure shit out on her own. Since they’d always thought of her as the family clown, she’d embraced it. Whether she loved her job or not, maybe her career choice had guaranteed their seeming lack of esteem.

Her empty kitchen seemed to agree.

Not bothering to swallow the lump in her throat, Georgie moped over to the compote and prepared to knock it into the trash, cheap bowl and all. But then the doorbell rang before she could.

Who . . . ?

No. No way.

It couldn’t be Travis.

Georgie’s gaze darted around the kitchen looking for a place to hide. Letting in the local baseball god to witness her humiliation was so not an option. She paced to the kitchen window and peered through the lace curtain—

He was glowering right at her.

Right, okay. No way to avoid this. His body language could not be making it clearer that he’d prefer to be a million light-years away, so Georgie would merely send him packing, then spend the rest of the afternoon eating bacon and regretting it.

She sucked in gulping breaths all the way to the front door, fingers twisting in her apron. Oh my God. Travis Ford was standing outside her door. Five feet away. Maybe less. She should probably take a moment to savor that, since she’d been dreaming about it since puberty, but she couldn’t stall any longer. With an inward groan, she opened the door and leaned a casual hip on the frame. The picture of complacency. Hopefully. “Hi. So sorry. Brunch is canceled.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and winced. “Ye olde oven cut out on me last night. I didn’t have your number or I would have texted you. I mean, I wouldn’t abuse the privilege of having your number or something.” Her laugh sounded painfully forced. “But I would have sent a courtesy text.”